


Come Match Your Shape to Mine

by callmejude



Series: Summer Offerings [4]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Affection, Cuddling & Snuggling, M/M, Mentions of War, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 04:23:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15700083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmejude/pseuds/callmejude
Summary: Jon realizes there may be more to Theon than he lets on.





	Come Match Your Shape to Mine

**Author's Note:**

> I'm roadtripping around the province so I've fallen a bit behind on my writing, but I promise this series is nowhere near finished, so don't forget about me!

The world surges around him, and Jon jolts awake, eyes blinking wild in the dark. The light in the hearth has died, and the moon is too low to be seen from the window. It’s only by the faint, distant glow of stars that Jon sees Theon curled beside him. His face is buried in Jon’s shoulder, and when Jon bolts up from his furs, Theon turns his face into the featherbed. It’s a moment before Jon realizes what woke him, when Theon kicks against Jon’s furs, and rocks the bed beneath them again.

“Theon —” 

Jon’s voice is hoarse, nearly silent, and Theon lets out a pained whine at the back of his throat that drowns him out.

At a loss, Jon squeezes Theon’s wrist. It’s calming when Theon does it to him, but it seems to have the opposite effect on Theon, who jerks awake with a shout, ripping his hand out of Jon’s grip.

“What — Jon?”

The room is silent, save for Theon’s panicked breathing. The light flickering in from Jon’s window is barely enough to see Theon’s bewildered face. Jon bites his lip, watching for Theon to react. He has never known Theon to fall asleep in his room before. They slept through the night together once, in the brothel. But never again. Whores gossip, and they’d be easily recognized at the inn. 

“You — you fell asleep,” Jon offers lamely.

Theon’s body moves stiffly, when he sits up from the featherbed. “Right. Fuck.”

Guilt twitches in Jon’s stomach. He would’ve never asked Theon to stay with him tonight if he’d known how tired he must have been. But the day had been hard for Jon, as well. Lady Catelyn had caught him alone in the hall and snapped at him as he passed before anyone else could venture close enough to overhear. She usually acts every part the lady, even though she resents him. It had been jarring, to see that side of her.

Silence drags over them a moment, before Theon shivers, taking another deep breath.

Jon ventures, “Are you alright?”

Even in shadow, Jon can tell Theon isn’t looking at him. “What?”

“You… it looked like you were sleeping poorly.”

Theon sighs, loud, frustrated. “Aye, well. Probably from the way you kick me in your sleep.”

That’s not why. He stares back at Theon, waiting for honesty. Sometimes it eventually does come out of Theon’s mouth if Jon is patient. 

This time, it doesn’t. “Should get back to my own room,” Theon says finally, giving Jon a gentle shove as he climbs out of his bed toward the door. His hand is clammy, when it presses into Jon’s arm. “My deepest apologies that I woke you, Snow, but if I stay here much longer we’ll just get caught.”

“Theon, wait.”

He actually does. He turns and looks back at Jon, and even though the stars barely lights his expression, Jon knows he’s looking at him openly. He wouldn’t leave, if Jon asked it of him, no matter how close to dawn it was.

Jon should at least try to do the same for him.

“You sounded frightened.”

A scoff. Theon never takes anything seriously, not even his own feelings. Perhaps especially not those. 

“I’ve nothing to be scared of, Snow.”

It’s not true, and Jon knows it isn’t. He’s wracked with fear even just by this, lying beside Jon at night while he falls asleep — even on the nights where he does nothing more than tuck Jon against his chest and hum absently as he dozes off. The ironborn regard fear as weakness, shameful, but Jon can still see it underneath Theon’s dismissive smirk, and hear it under his sharp tongue.

Jon sees it now, in the way he’s standing, not far from the bed. His arm is cocked strangely, angled towards him. Is he reaching for him? In an attempt to comfort, Jon reaches out and takes his hand.

“You’re shaking.”

Theon tisks and throws Jon’s hand off of him. His voice is touched with venom when he snaps, “Aye, it’s bloody cold outside of those damn furs, Snow.”

Jon looks down at the floor. He should’ve known better than to point it out aloud, but it fell from his mouth more out of surprise than anything else. Theon doesn’t tremble, not for anything. 

Met with only silence, Theon starts out Jon’s door with a huff.

“Wait, Theon…” Without thinking, Jon jumps to his feet to follow after him. 

He’s nearly at the door when he remembers he hadn’t bothered to be decent, about to go charging through the castle halls undressed. The night had been too hot for bedclothes, and Theon beside him always keeps him warm, regardless. He had crawled into bed naked. Blushing, he snatches his breeches off the floor and stomps into them before racing down the hallway, trying to keep his feet as light as possible, holding his breath between his teeth.

The torches along the the hall are dim, and Jon keeps his head down to watch where he steps. He doesn’t make it far before he runs headlong into Theon, nearly toppling the two of them over.

“Ow!” Theon’s voice is muffled. “Seven _Hells,_ Jon.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon whispers, trying to keep his voice down despite his breathlessness and panic. “I hadn’t meant to — I hadn’t meant to upset you. I only want to be sure you’re alright.”

“Go back to your room.”

Just behind them, Jon can make out Theon’s door. “Can I come in?”

With a heavy sigh, Theon turns around and swings his door open. “Gods, you’re so serious. Does it even matter if I say no?”

Blinking, Jon follows after him. He had expected more fight out of Theon than this. He’d seemed angrier. Jon stares at him dumbly, and Theon shoves the door shut behind them.

“What is it, Snow? I’m dead tired and I’ve wasted half the night by now.”

Jon opens his mouth to apologize, but decides it would only irritate Theon further, if he were to be such a simpering maid about it. He tilts his head. “Have you ever fallen asleep before? In my chambers like that?”

Theon’s back draws tight and he scowls. “I still have my head, don’t I?”

Jon hadn’t meant it that way. He knows Theon had never slept through the night beside him, or he would’ve woken wrapped in limbs rather than his furs. But perhaps he dozes, sometimes. A warm bed of furs is hard to resist. 

Jon doesn’t ask again, and instead mutters, “You could’ve told me, if you were too tired to lay down with me. I don’t mean to burden you.”

“Oh? Have you ever tried telling you ‘no’, then? Goes better for you, I reckon.”

It’s like a knife in Jon’s chest, and he gulps back his sudden gasp. 

“I — I’d understand if you’d rather...” Jon promises feebly. He takes a step back, toward Theon’s door. He doesn’t want him here. He’s never wanted him here. Does he not want to be around him at all? What is Jon doing? “I wouldn’t make you, if you didn’t…”

“Jon, don’t. I hadn’t — I hadn’t realized the day’s wear on me until my head hit the furs. It’s not your fault.” Theon’s voice is like gravel, and he’s being so forgiving. Why is he being so kind? 

Jon starts when a hand lands gently in his hair. 

“It’s alright,” Theon assures, “just — get back to your chambers, alright? Get back to sleep.”

When Jon looks up at him, he notices the clouded quality of his eyes. It’s like Theon hasn’t slept at all. Jon finds himself wondering how often Theon wakes from bad dreams alone.

Instead of leaving, Jon asks, “What did you dream of?”

Theon makes a face, and the hand in Jon’s hair falls away. “What’re you on about?”

“Your dream.” At first, Jon’s voice is tender, but at the sudden glare on Theon’s face, he tries again, straightening his back and hardening his tone. “That’s how you woke me. With all your thrashing.”

It’s odd, seeing his face change with Jon’s voice. He remembers standing with Theon in the brothel, the way Ros spoke to him. Perhaps he’d speak to Ros about his fears, if she were to ask.

It takes Theon a moment to recover. When he does, his voice is cold. “Aye, well perhaps you shouldn’t beg me to lay with you every night like a damned tavern girl, Snow. I wouldn’t inconvenience you so if you’d let me sleep in my own bed.”

“It’s not an inconvenience,” Jon snaps. He’s not going to let Theon win this just by being cruel. “I only want to help. I have nightmares, too, sometimes.”

“Oh and what are yours, Snow?” That startles him. Jon shakes his head, not wanting to answer, but Theon prods snidely, “Is Lady Catelyn mean to you? Calls you names? No Robb or Lord Stark to shield you from her wrath?”

Jon balks, feeling caught, and takes a step back. “Those aren’t — I have worse ones.” Ones that don’t come true. Or at least they haven’t, not yet. “Was it about Father? Your dream?”

“What?”

When Jon looks up, the anger has drained from Theon’s expression. It’s always an odd look on him, when the corners of his mouth are turned down. Contemplative, concerned. It’s rare, that Theon isn’t smiling.

Jon swallows hard. He feels cornered, suddenly. When did this become about him?

“Sometimes I dream that Father discovers us. Sends you away, or — or…” He doesn’t need to elaborate. Theon knows better than anyone. Though perhaps his focus never lands on Jon’s scorn. “Word gets around the castle. About us. About me. Arya and Robb are always disgusted with me. Sometimes Father sends me away, instead. Is that — is it something like that, what you were dreaming of?”

Theon’s shoulders sag. His mask slips, just for a moment, and he looks down at Jon with condolence. “No, Jon,” he says with a sigh. He sounds so tired, when holds out his hand. Heart racing, Jon takes it, and Theon gives him a gentle tug closer to him and leads him toward his bed. “Not that.”

He wraps his arm around Jon’s shoulders as he sits them both back against Theon’s headboard. Jon buries into him, helpless to comfort him, now. “Because I’d — I’d never let him send you away, Theon. I wouldn’t. I’d do whatever it took. I’d — like you said we can… we can just run away.”

“Shh,” Theon drags Jon into his lap and kisses his temple. “You’re alright, I — I’d only dreamed of things long past, alright? Already happened, all of it. Everything is fine, now.”

He means it to comfort Jon, but it only makes him feel worse. Knowing there’s nothing that can be done about the things that frighten him, knowing Theon feels the need to comfort Jon over his own fears. Shaking his head, Jon wraps his arms around Theon’s neck, pulling him close.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, though he has no idea any longer what could’ve plagued Theon’s dreams. “I’m not good at this, but I’ll keep you safe.”

Theon chuckles, and Jon feels it pang in his chest. It sounds so sweet, soft and careful, and Jon would die for him.

“Aye, I know you would, Jon,” Theon tells him, giving him another gentle kiss on his temple. “Not much you could do though, at the tender age of three. And all the way in Winterfell, then, weren’t you?”

Jon frowns. It takes him a moment, to recall the year, and what he must mean. “The — the rebellion, you mean?”

He doesn’t remember much from war stories of the Greyjoy Rebellion. Only that his father left him alone with Lady Catelyn for nearly a year, and came back home with a new child to keep in their home, with eyes like a storm and a daunting smile, who smelled of seawater. 

“I was four,” Jon says petulantly, and Theon smiles as he sits back from Jon’s face.

“Oh, aye, my mistake. Surprising, then, that you weren’t at your father’s side with sword and shield.”

Theon never speaks of the rebellion that brought him here, and Father never had much to say about it either, only that it was war, and it was over, and that Theon was meant to live with them until the death of his father and he became Lord of the Iron Islands.

It couldn’t have been so bad, Jon had always thought. Not like Robert’s Rebellion, that plunged the whole Seven Kingdoms into chaos and bloodshed. Father came home with nearly all of his host, and without the rebellion in the Iron Islands Theon would not be here now, in Winterfell. Jon cannot imagine what life would be like without him here. 

“Was — was it really so terrible?” Jon asks. 

The question only darkens Theon’s expression. After a moment of silence, he shrugs.

“Saw a lot of blood, on those last nights, when the fighting came to Pyke. Fires out at sea burning all night. Though I suppose it only prepared me for when I’d be called to arms.”

It surprises Jon. He hadn’t expected Theon to have seen the fighting at all. Jon is at seventeen years without having witnessed bloodshed more than the executions father has him stand and watch with his brother and Theon. And that is different, he knows. You only execute law-breakers, the worst of law-breakers. War is different. Even the songs and histories mention boys and farmer’s sons marching off to never return. 

“Was it — what was it like?” Jon’s voice is barely a whisper, but Theon still flinches. 

He shrugs again, and Jon sighs. He wishes Theon would speak to him. He wishes he were as comforting to Theon as Theon is to him.

“I didn’t see too much,” Theon admits finally, and Jon feels a wash of relief that he says anything at all, “not until the fighting came to our door, at least. I was young. I watched up high, from the tallest tower in the Bloody Keep. My mother didn’t want Yara or I to get too close to the fighting.”

Theon has never mentioned his mother before. It stuns Jon for a moment to remember that he has one, that he had known her once. He forgets to ask who Yara is.

“It wasn’t til the end that I saw faces. They brought me down to meet the victors, because I was meant to go with one of them.” Theon smirks, like it’s funny, but Jon only feels it like an itch at the back of his neck — discomforting and hot. He’d never thought on such things long enough to realize how frightening that must have been.

“One of them?” Jon asks then. 

Again, Theon shrugs. “I was either going away with your father or the King, but that great bear of a man terrified me.”

It’s the first time Jon has ever heard Theon admit to being scared of anything. Jon does not know the look of Robert Baratheon, but who he pictures now is not the charming, proud face his father has described. Instead he pictures a massive beast nearly a storey tall. He would have to be, if Theon feared him. 

Theon seems to realize himself in the silence that’s dragging between them, and laughs, somewhat awkwardly. “He stunk of wine when I met him, and his grip was so tight on my arm I can still remember the bruise. The King was far fiercer than Lord Stark. Thought then he might’ve killed me in my sleep not a fortnight later, just out of rage.”

That can’t be true, Jon knows, but hearing Theon say it sends his mind reeling.

“Father’s not like that,” Jon assures quickly. “He won’t hurt you, even if your family tries to rebel again. He won’t. I know he won’t. He may go back to war, but he would never —”

Theon snorts, disbelieving. His face changes, as if he’s been struck flat on tender skin, and Jon feels tears threaten the corners of his eyes again. Does Theon always live in such fear of his father? He remembers nearly a year past, the day they’d first laid together in the godswood, how Theon had fled to the heart tree after Father had scolded him, but Theon does not hide in the godswood often. He can’t be afraid all the time, can he?

“Theon…” Jon’s voice cracks, and he feels so foolish. “It wouldn’t be fair. Father always does what’s right.”

“Aye, he does.” Theon’s hands are cool on Jon’s face, wiping tears from his cheeks. “You’ve no need to worry on your father’s honor, Snow. He’d never take my life unfairly.”

“I’ll stop him,” Jon says, pulling away from Theon’s hands. It’s ridiculous, that Theon is the one comforting him. “If — if it happens, if he tries —” Jon attempts to picture it, but finds he can’t. He shakes his head. “He would never, Theon. You’re Robb’s closest friend.”

Theon doesn’t say anything to that, but his smile still seems off, and Jon is overwhelmed with a sudden onslaught of panic and misery. Has Theon lived his whole life so sure that Father would take his head at any moment? Jon had never even considered that such a thing would happen. His father is a just man, Theon knows that. The death would be Balon Greyjoy’s, if it were to happen. Surely not his innocent son. But Theon has also stood at Father’s side every time he’s forced to bring a man to justice, holding the greatsword Ice’s fur-lined scabbard, hearing his father’s voice pray to his northern gods. Jon can’t know if there are different words spoken for the death of an ironborn.

The thought is suddenly freezing is Jon’s lungs. If his father were to ever take Theon’s life, it wouldn’t even be to his own god. The Drowned God does not have presence so far inland. Would his father take Theon to the shores, to Deepwood Motte or to White Harbor, to let Theon’s soul rest with those of his people? Or after so many years, would Theon want to die as a northerner would?

The silence causes Theon to speak more freely, and he adds with a shrug. “I remember after meeting with the King, I was relieved when your father offered his home instead. Said King Robert had enough worries, having the whole realm to manage, that he didn’t need a strange boy running around.”

Jon doesn’t like that, the idea that his father would dismiss Theon as nothing more than some strange boy. He swallows against a lump forming in his throat. “I was strange, too.”

Theon laughs. “Oh, aye, when your father mentioned you he left that bit out. Only said he had two sons, ‘round my age. Imagine my disappointment when it was just the likes of you and Robb.”

He says it smiling, but Jon hears something tight in his voice, and can’t manage to return the gesture. Theon had been so small, when Father had brought him home to Winterfell. Taller than Jon, but still a boy. At the time he had seemed afraid of nothing, but looking back, Jon can recall how he would sometimes vanish into the woods during the day, or lock himself in his room. As a child Jon had thought it was only because he was too old and too proud to play with children the age of Robb and himself, but thinking on it now, Jon wishes he’d realized. Perhaps things would have been different.

“Well, I’m glad that you didn’t — you didn’t go with King Robert.”

“ _I’m_ not,” Theon smirks teasingly. “Could’ve had a nice warm summer near the ocean, with fine silks and ships, and all the whores King’s Landing has to offer. But instead I’m stuck freezing my cock off trapped in the north with you lot.”

It isn’t funny. Jon looks away, blinking rapidly, and Theon seems to realize his mistake. 

He clicks his tongue. “Oh come now, Jon, don’t be so sullen. You know I’m only playing.”

Nodding, Jon shifts in Theon’s lap. He’s always playing, Jon knows, but it isn’t always a game. His father still makes Theon hold his greatsword and watch him exact justice. He still scolds Robb for calling Theon his brother. And Theon still has nightmares of a time when he’d been torn from his home.

“I thought you hated me, when we were young. You were awful to me, whenever — anyone else was around.” Jon’s voice cracks, and Theon doesn’t say anything at all. Perhaps he had hated Jon back then, but no more than he hated anyone else. Why had no one tried to help him belong? Why hadn’t Jon been kinder? “I’m — I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Theon asks curiously, but Jon lunges forward and seizes him in an embrace rather than answering. “Jon — hey…”

“I won’t leave you alone,” Jon assures softly. He nuzzles into Theon’s neck breathing in the comforting smell of the ocean, and feels the vibration of Theon’s disbelieving laugh.

“You’re such a soft thing,” Theon whispers, fingers gentle in Jon’s hair. “Always thought about how quickly you’d perish, on the Islands.”

It’s not the first time Theon has mentioned how Jon would fair in his homeland. Jon wonders, just for a moment, if Theon thinks of bringing Jon back with him, when he’s sent home. If Theon would ask, Jon knows he would go.

“You’d keep me safe,” Jon says sleepily, pressing into Theon’s neck. “I know you would. You’re the — the strongest out of us. The best warrior, by far.” Fingers wrest in Jon’s hair, breath ghosting soft in his curls. Jon closes his eyes and breathes in deep. “Just as I’ll — I’ll keep you safe, here.”

Jon expects him to laugh again, but Theon makes no sound at all. Jon worries perhaps he’s said something wrong when he feels the press of lips in his hair. For a long beat that’s his only response, and then Theon whispers, “Aye, alright, Jon.”

Not long ago, Jon knows Theon would’ve bristled at such a thing, the thought of needing protection, least of all by the bastard son of his captor. But now he only peppers Jon with kisses, honest and gentle, and Jon feels tears at his throat. He needs it now, the promise of safety. He had needed it then, but would have never accepted it. Even if Jon had been kinder, he realizes, there was no way to have Theon trust him then. No wonder Theon had been so cruel, when he was young. Jon thinks again of sitting with Theon in the godswood when he had been scorned. He ran there for protection under gods he didn’t know — only because he had nowhere else to go.

But Jon will keep him safe now. He knows he can.

“Lay down,” Jon whispers, twisting in Theon’s arms. “I won’t stay. Promise. Just — just until you fall asleep.”

Theon laughs, but doesn’t do as he’s told. “No, Jon. It’s alright. Get back to your own chambers before we get caught.”

But that’s not fair. Not after everything Theon has done for him, again and again. Jon shakes his head. “No,” he says flatly. “I’m — I’m going to stay.”

When he looks up at Theon then, his expression is soft, but infuriatingly patronizing. The look he gives baby Rickon, when he babbles on as if anyone other than little Bran can understand him.

The silence is abruptly deafening. Theon is so rarely quiet, and Jon feels it now, seeping into him. He’s still scared, after everything that’s been said. Jon can never take that fear from him.

“I’ll protect you,” Jon says again, just to fill the silence. “I won’t let — I’ll speak for you, And so would Robb. We’d think of something, the two of us. I’ll make — make sure…”

“Shh, enough of that now.” His voice is lighter, now. He’s kidding again. “You needn’t think of anything tonight.”

Jon’s not sure what he could do, if Theon’s father rebelled. Surely he’d only need tell his father not to hurt Theon. Surely his father would not need to be told at all.

They’d spoken this way once before, both breathless and dizzy, Jon poised over him beneath the heart tree. It had been different, then. An odd sort of fantasy. It had vanished from Jon’s thoughts not moments later. Theon was a fixture of his family, he knew. No harm would come to him. Jon had no idea how present the thoughts stayed, in Theon’s mind. He feels guilty, suddenly, for letting the words light fire in his own blood.

“I’d do everything I could,” Jon says finally. It occurs to him that it’s all he can promise.

Theon doesn’t seem surprised. “I know you would,” he says gently. 

He sounds so tired, and guilt settles deeper in Jon’s bones as he wraps around Theon’s middle. “I’m going to stay here,” he says firmly. “I want — I want to make sure you can sleep.”

“I’ll be alright, Snow,” Theon answers. 

He does not tell Jon to leave again, so Jon stays. He pushes Theon onto his back and curls around him, tucked solidly against his side. “I know,” Jon says pointedly. “I’ll keep you safe.”

Theon snorts, but it doesn’t sound so dismissive, now. Amused. More like he usually sounds. The stars are brighter from Theon’s window, and Jon can see him roll his eyes fondly before spooning Jon against his chest.

“Alright, Jon,” he mumbles. “I believe you.”

Perhaps he doesn’t, truly. Perhaps it’s just something he’s said to calm Jon’s nerves. But his smile is sleepy and honest as he shuts his eyes, and Jon feels it burn under his skin like a promise.

The room is quiet, and Theon falls asleep quickly. It doesn’t surprise Jon. He’d been so tired, while they spoke. Jon has had nightmares before that drain him much the same, when he wakes. It’s like he’d not been asleep at all, those times. Day will break soon, but Jon lingers, watching Theon sleep. It will be another hour after sunrise at least, before his father rouses.

Before, when Jon had seen him asleep in his bed, his face had been twisted in pain. But now his face is slack, the furrow loose from his brow. He looks as he did when he’d fallen asleep at the brothel. Soft and young and peaceful. Jon doesn’t want to leave him.

By the time Jon finally slides out from underneath Theon’s heavy arm draped over his side, the start of the sun peeks through Theon’s window. Jon will not be able to sleep in his own room much longer, but it doesn’t matter. He’s not tired. Theon squirms a bit, as Jon sits up from the bed, but stills when Jon leans down to kiss his temple.

He longs to stay. It pulls at him like a heavy chain, dragging him down into Theon’s furs. Jon wonders, briefly, if Theon feels this way, any of the times he leaves after Jon’s fallen asleep.

Theon’s hand twitches, and Jon reaches for it automatically, wrapping his fingers around his palm.

“It’s alright, Theon,” he whispers, barely audible over his own breath, “I’ll keep you safe. I promise you.”

There are other words he wants to say, words that are reserved usually for the godswood, spoken only when the man drapes his cloak over his woman. He does not say them now. Perhaps they’re different, for ironborn. Different words, different customs. Jon doesn’t know them, but he would like to say those, too. Looking down at Theon’s sleeping face, he knows that he could. He would, if Theon asked it of him. It’s strange to realize. He’d never thought of such things before. Marriage is not much talked of, with bastards, and he’d never cared about that sort of thing. Not before now.

But it’s a foolish thought, and the sun is rising. Jon hops down from Theon’s featherbed and creeps from his room, shutting the door behind him and darting to his own room before the guards have chance to wake.

**Author's Note:**

> title from "Hraunsvatn" by Raised by Swans


End file.
